|Nov/Dec 1999 Poetry|
Why Women Like Cross Words
I end my crossword
as you sing the blues;
a moaning crescendo;
accusing a letter of being
more important than you. Which passes.
A clumsy little hummingbird you are
just hanging in the air,
waiting for the flower to come to you.
Waiting for my hobby to end.
It is my deliverance
to a freer moment,
unencumbered by petty affections,
invulnerable to threats of abandonment.
The only time you grow
is when you seek to uproot,
as you try to climb higher and higher,
not knowing I clipped your wings
way back at the puzzle's first word.